Nights 114 - 129: The Stuart Highway.

We turned right at Three Ways and headed towards the coast.  We were at least a thousand kilometres away and had no real intention of sighting or smelling the ocean for weeks yet but just heading towards it was good enough.  My funk subsided.  We’d go and see the big rock some other time, by plane, surrounded by a resort.  It’s hardly the stuff of high adventure but I really couldn’t care less.  I’ll see Uluru and Kings Canyon etc one day, but not on this trip.  And I couldn’t be happier.

NIGHT 114  -  NEWCASTLE WATERS REST STOP.

Don’t get excited for me reading the name of the place we are staying.  If you’re thinking ‘that’s good, they’ve found more water in the drylands’ then, thank you for your concern, but the name is misleading.  Although there was water in the general area at one point – a big expanse of water.

 Newcastle Waters was a very important place during droving times.  Three stock routes converged here because it provided a place to access water thereby keeping human and cattle alive a little longer.  As such, over time the place acquired a pub, a general store, a church, a schoolhouse. Newcastle Waters grew and then, with the advent of trucks and sealed roads, droving died away and Newcastle Waters died with it.

Some buildings still stand today, but as relics only.  The rest stop is alongside the highway, about three kms away from where the town once thrived.  A quick detour brings you to the ghost town.  You can enter the old buildings, some of which were restored as part of the Bicentennial celebrations of 1988.  It’s equal parts fascinating and shocking.  People of the time lived a genuinely harsh life.  The structures still standing highlight what was lacking rather than what people had.

We wondered why the rest stop wasn’t created in the old town.  It would be a fantastic place to spend the night.  We came up with two reasons, both sad and indicative of the way things are today.  The first reason involves that group of travellers that lack respect or civic pride.  I don’t know who they are but we constantly see evidence that they exist.  They deface things, or ‘tag’ them, or strew litter about.  Or, worse, they are so self-absorbed as to use anything they desire as a personal toilet.  Thanks to these faceless travellers, places like Newcastle Waters are best not opened up completely.  Chances are that after six months they’d bear little resemblance to their current existence. 

The second reason is that Newcastle Waters the old town is now owned by Newcastle Waters Station.  Some of the buildings are being used to house staff and the ‘water’ that continued life and inspired the name is fenced off so that we have no idea what it looks like, how big it is, etc.  We couldn’t get near it.  It’s good that the owners have allowed general access to the old town and they are maintaining it well but it’s a pity that the water is off limits.  It would be nice to marry a personal experience to the history.

I give Newcastle Waters Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  It was quite small as NT rest areas go and the name ‘Newcastle Waters’ made me feel homesick for an offshore day at Newie Beach or the Cowrie Hole.

NIGHT 115  -  DALY WATERS PUB.

“You must go to Daly Waters Pub” said a bloke we met.  Then some other bloke said it on a different day, his wife nodding agreement in the background.  Then it was said again by someone else, and again, and again, and…

It was obvious that going to Daly Waters pub is considered a necessity.  You don’t go to Paris without visiting the Eiffel Tower, and you don’t go to London without a trip to The Palace, and, so it seems, you don’t travel the Stuart Highway without stopping in at The Daly Waters pub.  “It’s a bloody good night out”, we were constantly told, “even better if you get the Beef and Barra”.  We’d rang through and booked a site for the night. 

In my opinion the Daly Waters pub isn’t the ramshackle old building covered outside by deliberately mis-spelt (hence more genuwine) signs and covered on the inside by flags and banners and discarded underwear.  No.  The Daly Waters Pub is a show, with the building carefully stage-crafted to provide the appropriate backdrop to what is ostensibly an outback theatre restaurant.

 Everyone working there has a script to follow.  The German girl who served us at the bar delivered a well-rehearsed monologue that simultaneously booked us into the park and took our order for the evening meal – we went for the 7 o’clock seating (there were four seatings), I ordered my beef and barra medium, Shana just went for the barra.  It was 11 o’clock in the morning.  Job done, we were sent to see ‘Mike on the Bike’.  Mike met us (though not on his bike) at the gate to the camping area.  Parking was finely orchestrated, Mike telling you where to park and directing you so that every metre of space was maximised.  Once parked, Mike delivered his monologue – he told us about the amenities, about the evening’s entertainment, about expectations regarding tipping, about the local businesses around the pub - the artist selling paintings from his front yard, the museum selling curios, the signwriter who can personalise your ‘chariot’.  He delivered the same monologue two minutes later.  I listened as he told the same jokes to the next new arrivals.  He was good at it.  As the area became more congested Mike took to his bike, new arrivals following him around and into spaces that didn’t seem big enough yet always managed to be okay.

The entertainment started at 4:30.  The performer (who was also the artist from across the road) sang mostly narrative songs about the NT and country living, many of which he’d written himself.  He told stories and jokes and recited bush poetry.  I found a lot of his jokes and stories funny but, if I’m going to be honest, much of it existed on the cusp of many isms – racism, sexism, patriotism, jingoism.  He was aware of ‘too far’ and so hovered around innuendo and blokey bonhomie. The outside ‘theatre’ area was packed with very few vacant seats.  It was ‘happy hour’ on beer and wine and most people drank heartily and laughed uproariously.

The second performer (who was also the signwriter) had a backing track and an electric guitar.  He noodled around the rock and roll staples of the 50’s and 60’s.  We left during his performance.  We had to feed Moz and walk him and, well, we weren’t that interested in what the guy was doing.  We had to be back by 7pm though.  We had to listen for our names and, when called, go and collect our beef and barra, steaming hot and cooked to our preference. We then had to negotiate the salad bar.

It turned out that the beef was unexceptional and the barra beautiful but it was the bread that was the star of the meal.  Cooked ‘in house’ it was crispy and light and very moreish.  We were seated with an older couple we’d first met at Barkley Homestead (I’d borrowed their ladder).  We’d bumped into each other at Newcastle Waters and again here.  While we ate the final performer started.

The last performance was much like the first, except perhaps he was a bit more polished.  His name was Chili and his wife accompanied him using powerpoint on a computer.  While he sang or told yarns or borderline ism jokes his wife projected the desired images onto a big screen that he’d erected beside himself.  Although more accomplished than the first act, I found him less amusing.  Or perhaps I felt like I’d already seen his act before.  He even sang a couple of the exact same songs as act 1.  The night ended with him proclaiming his allegiance to the flag and to his country and, whilst most of the crowd agreed with him heartily, I felt it ended the night on the wrong note.  I was happy to appreciate his talent but not have to agree with him on everything. This ending, however, introduced a distinct division – if you agreed with him then you were ‘right’ and valuable; disagree and, although he didn’t say the words, you may as well fuck off.  His tone really was that polemic.

We followed tipping protocol by putting money into his guitar case, declined purchasing one of his CDs, and went back to the van.  It was Territory Day and a big fireworks display was soon to be ignited in front of the pub.  Dogs hate fireworks so we were keen to get back to Moz and hopefully alleviate some of his fear.

Except we couldn’t enter the van.

 Semi-pissed as I had been during the afternoon I’d somehow locked us out.  We had the key, but the key wouldn’t turn in the lock.  Somehow the internal deadbolt had been activated which, as far as we knew, was impossible to do.

Mild panic became fevered as the fireworks began exploding while we were still locked out.  People we’d met were offering assistance and a guy came up with a plan that thankfully worked.  I won’t go into it but Moz was in a heightened state of anxiety by the time we got to him (as was Shana, as was I).  The fireworks had finished and poor Mozza had no idea of what was happening or where his people were.  He was a shaky red puppy that night. H

 

We give the Daly Waters pub 3 stars out of 5.  The crammed us very close together and we were next to a bus load of teenage girls on tour but they provided almost as much entertainment as the sanctioned acts.  It was theatre restaurant but worth it just to say you’d been there.

NIGHT  116  -  WARLOCH REST AREA.

It was hot and dusty and had the most disgusting long drop toilet of the trip so far.  I will talk about the fuel guy instead.

The Fuel Guy walked over to us while we were playing scrabble.  We were sitting in the shade outside the van and he asked us which way we were heading.  He stood over us, an old man wearing denim Levi’s that were too loose, causing him to hitch them up high on his belly every 15 seconds or so.  I watched as they worked their way back down and he hitched them up again, over and over.

The fuel guy wanted to tell us where we could buy cheap fuel in Tennant Creek.  On the surface this is fair enough, the price of fuel and the fuel consumption of your vehicle is a common discussion topic in roadside rest stops.  However, we’d already told him we were headed north, and therefore not going to Tennant Creek.  Obviously his information was useless to us but this failed to deter him.  “In the middle of town there’s an old servo with just a couple of pumps” he told us in a monotone drawl, “So don’t go to the big stations at the edge of town”.  We nodded, the whole thing eerily reminding us of Mr Whingebago.  “ Remember, go to the little one in the middle” he continued.  We tried to head him off.  “Yeah but we’re not..”  He barged straight through.  “It’s 10 cents a litre cheaper there” he said proudly, hitching his pants up again.  He looked me directly in the eye and repeated emphatically “10 cents a litre cheaper”.  Then he said “I’ll leave you to your game” and turned and wandered off.  He didn’t want small talk.  He said what he thought we needed to hear and, job done, left, leaving us to wonder whether he was hard of hearing or even mostly deaf.

 

I give the Warloch Rest Area 1 star out of 5. Yuk toilets overshadowed everything.

NIGHTS  117 – 119  - MATARANKA CAMPING AND CABINS, BITER SPRINGS.

Since Barkly bloody Homestead we’ve travelled greater distances each day than we’d initially proposed.  We are both happy to be heading away from red dust and towards sapphire water but feel we are doing too much driving in a day.  We made a pact to slow down again and Bitter Springs near Mataranka was the place we chose to enact it.  We knew there was water here and that it was an easy walk from the camping ground.  Really, right now, that’s all we seek.

Bitter Springs is a thermal pool.  Although it has been rendered comfortable for tourists with walking paths and viewing platforms the pool itself remains natural.  It looks like a creek that widens out into the pool and then becomes skinnier again as it progresses.  The water is warm and the current fairly strong and you can float along for maybe 500mtrs before exiting and walking back along the track to do it again.

Or better, hire a floating noodle for $1.  With this noodle positioned beneath you you float under canopies of paper bark and palm trees, past reed fringed banks.  There are water lilies beside you and water mosses with big blue dragonflies humming above them.  The water is crystal clear and you can see the sandy bottom and the logs and roots that lie there.  St Johns cross spiders suspend themselves in webs above you as you float, just high enough to not have their webs destroyed yet low enough to be disconcerting, especially when clumped in groups of 9 or 10.  When you are alone or with few others it is a serene experience, the combination of the heated water and the natural watercourse quietly awe inspiring.  Of course, the impact is lessened when floating along beside overstimulated teenagers yelling to each other or young kids screaming about the spiders.  That’s alright.  Just go back up and float down again.  It is especially magical just on dusk.

On our first visit I was walking along while Shana waited with Moz. (I’d won scissors, paper, rock again).  I was happily saying hullo to every face I passed and, bugger me down, there was Jacki and Greg Russell heading back from the pools, friends of ours from Newcastle.  We knew they were in NT but, as we weren’t supposed to be at Mataranka yet, and as they’d come further from Darwin than they’d expected, we didn’t think we’d be able to meet.  Well we did, and spent some time in the car park catching up and boozing.  It was a lovely surprise, especially for Shana who doesn’t always find me as amusing as I do myself.

We also went to Mataranka Hot Springs, a different hot spring about 10kms away.  You have to go through town to get there.  Shana doubled me on the Vespa and I loved every moment of it.  Being on the back watching hawks fly overhead and termite mounds speed past, the wind and sun on my arms and legs, was brilliant.  As we cruised along the small section of highway through town people smiled and waved, probably surprised to see such a small purple scooter transporting two older white folk so far from any major centre.  We laughed and waved back, feeling electric and full of life.

Mataranka Hot Springs were less impressive than Bitter Springs.  Mataranka homestead used to house army personnel during World War 2 and the springs had been walled like a swimming pool and made only available to officers.  It still has that feel now.  Although still clear watered and hot and fringed by palms, it has an interrupted natural flow and so feels fake.  It feels like a re-creation, landscaped and crafted as part of a resort.  We were glad we’d chosen to stay at Bitter Springs.

We give Mataranka Camping and Cabins 4 ½ stars out of 5.  They lost half a point because their toilets had no system to signify ‘occupied’.  Therefore you had to gently knock before entering, often pulling hard on the door handle before somebody emitted a surprised “Oi!” so that you’d quickly offer an embarrassed “Oops.  Sorry.”

NIGHT  120  -  KING RIVER REST AREA.

Another mention of water where none existed, or not during dry season anyway.  Another free camp beside the highway, costing no money but offering nothing but its dry and dusty self.  This one was big. It looked like a peanut, flattened slightly on the side fringed by the highway.  You entered in the middle and could go left or right with both opening out into large circular areas built around a shade structure.  The toilets lie in between, straight along from the entry.

 

It was excellent as far as rest areas go.  We went left and backed in between two trees and the effect was little different to being in a caravan park, except we had neither showers or toilets and generators were free to rattle and hum without restriction.

I give the King River Rest Area 2 stars out of 5.  Some people looked like they’d been there for a while.  Again, it is free.

NIGHTS  121 & 122  -  RIVERVIEW CARAVAN PARK, KATHERINE.

It is getting very hot.  We are having trouble sleeping.  There is often a wind during the day; often quite gusty and unpleasant.  I don’t know where it goes at night though.  At night everything becomes as still as death.  Skin touching skin sizzles, and not in a good sexy way.

At Katherine we experienced more fully the effects of Top End tourism.  The carpark contained mostly caravans and motorhomes, lined up in rows like boats at a marina.  Little space between, little room to open doors or organise bags.  Away from the carpark we had to bustle and jostle and join cues.  The cues moved slowly.  Tempers became frazzled.  Little kids cried and older, less able grey nomads slowed down overall progression.  A man and a woman argued over their place in the line. In the background people could be heard bickering over choices, turns, options.  People were looking at people with disbelief, wondering why they couldn’t have come earlier or later; how was it that we all choose to be here at the same time?   The locals, no doubt working for award wages, went on with their jobs, trying to communicate with people who spoke little English, talking slow and loud and gesticulating with their hands, smiling only because they’ve been told they have to.  And this was just a trip to Woolworths.  What would the actual tourist attractions be like?

Katherine Hot Springs was equally as crowded.  They were just behind the Riverview Caravan Park and we could walk there easily.  They are small springs, a tiny warm creek flowing gently through trees.  When we got there it reminded me of pictures of old time Roman baths.  There were lots of puffy bodies bobbling in the water, talking loudly.  Thankfully we’d had great hot springs experiences at Mataranka so we turned and walked back to van park.  They had a beautiful pool - cool, clean and spacious. 

 

We booked a trip to Katherine Gorge which was expensive but worth it.  The Gorge is actually 13 gorges linked together.  The cruise we did took in the first three gorges and also stopped at a swimming hole.  The scenery was spectacular, the swim fun.  Our tour guide was informative and funny.  He was obviously saying the things he’d been trained to say but he had a cheeky personality and a quick wit.  Thank you Tyrus for helping us learn and laugh.  Thank you Katherine Gorge for helping us feel a part of something outside of ourselves.   (And thank you Morrissey for going to a day board where they obviously ignored you so that you were frantic for affection when we returned).

We give the Riverview Caravan Park 2 ½ stars out of 5.  There were more flies there than blades of grass but the pool was fantastic.  Pity it closed at 10pm or else we might have slept in it somehow.

  NIGHT  123  -  BESIDE THE EDITH RIVER (SORT OF)

Leeanne, a friend of ours, had told us that she’d seen people camping alongside the Edith River “just to the left after you go over the bridge”.  She couldn’t tell us much other than she’d seen the people there.  We researched it and came up blank.  It wasn’t in the Camps Book and it wasn’t on Wikicamp or any other website.  We pencilled it in as a possibility as its distance from Katherine suited us.

Slowing down as we traversed the bridge a dirt track loomed to the left.  We turned onto it and to our surprise the dirt gave way to a tar road.  We happily drove along the tar.  Coming over a small rise we could see an old concrete bridge crossing the river but the road leading to it had deteriorated badly, no doubt having been swept away through continual wet seasons.  I edged my way forward warily.  The ‘bago is neither sure-footed nor nimble when things become soft.  As we neared the bridge we could see three tents set up alongside the river to our right, although there were no vehicles around.  The track had worsened but seeing the tents made me bolder.  If something went wrong then there had to be somebody come back to the tents eventually. 

It was obvious we couldn’t set up alongside the river.  There was nowhere we could do so without going way off the ‘road’.  Shana had seen a space off in the bush just as we came over the rise.  It was big enough.  We could camp there.  I could reverse all the way back up there or, seeing there was a wide flat expanse of river stones beside the road, I could use that as a turning bay, which I did.

All went well for the first 6 or so metres, until the back wheels started losing traction and we stopped going anywhere.  By this stage we were totally off the road; away from anything hard-packed.  The spinning tires started gouging into the river rocks, throwing them behind us as we started slowly sinking.  I threw it into reverse and straightened the front wheels.  Luckily this took us out of the forming rut.  Throwing it back into first and swearing set us going forward again, through the rut and slowly, slowly, come on you bastard, back onto the road.  We looked at each other and re-commenced breathing.  It was very close.  Now, if we had become bogged then things would have been okay I’m sure.  Two four wheel drives came back to the tents that evening, driving past where we were now safely parked in the side-space.  I’m sure they’d have pulled us out.  Bloody glad I didn’t have to ask them to though. 

 

We both didn’t have the best night’s sleep.  It was stiflingly hot again but I doubt that was the only reason.

I give the spot over the little hill beside the Edith River 1 star out of 5.  It looked nice alongside the river but our ‘clearing’ was blackened having recently been burnt and for some reason had car parts strewn about it. Weird parts like a petrol tank and a side mirror and an oil filter.  It caused my imagination to wander to dark places and I never felt comfortable while there.

NIGHT  124  -  PUSSY CAT FLAT, PINE CREEK.

I never learnt why the place is called ‘Pussy Cat Flat’.  It’s a racetrack and crazy 9 hole golf course full of termite mounds.  It rents out spaces like some showgrounds do.  The spaces are unremarkable and the showers resemble something out of M.A.S.H. but, in an example of lateral thinking, it has a bar and a bistro open from 4:30  -  8:30pm.  What a fantastic idea.

 

 

So, unlike most community driven country artefacts, the Pine Creek racecourse is thriving thanks to Pussy Cat Flats.  I’d hazard a guess and sat that 90% of the people camped there bought at least one drink at the bar, and many bought much more.  I’ll go further and say that 50% of the people bought a meal.   We did, and we hadn’t intended to.  But, after another scorcher day and a cider or two the whole idea of cooking makes no sense.  Why, when a hamburger and chips or barra and salad can be acquired nearby with no effort required besides opening a wallet or purse?  It’s win-win. Three locals are employed, the rarely used space becomes used and money pours into the area.  Plus I get hot chips.  More of it please.

And it opens people up for communication, as alcohol can often do.  You sit, you sip, you chat.  I met a guy and we talked about surfing.  He was obviously a surfer (he had a paddle board tied on the roof), mid thirties, fit looking.  Not long into the conversation he ‘confessed’ something.  He actually rides a bodyboard. WHAA!!  He was one of the first wave of bodyboarders (according to him anyway) and helped bridge to gap from a kids toy to a serious surfing possibility.  I fell in love, in a strictly platonic way of course.  All of a sudden I was leaning forward in my chair, talking excitedly and waving my arms about. I was wondering whether maybe we should travel together like a besties, he and his wife and three kids following behind us.  Or I’d follow him if he asked.  But he was headed east back to Brisbane and we were soon headed west to Broome and so I didn’t broach it.  He left early the next morning, leaving four little wheelmarks on the grass where his van was parked.

I give Pussy Cat Flats 4 ½ stars out of 5.  I’ll remember it like many people do Paris.  

NIGHT 125  -  BRIDGE CREEK REST AREA

Bridge Creek is another excellent rest area.  It is large with flat, grassed areas and the cleanest long-drop toilets I’ve ever been to.  Plus they are massive inside.  There’s also little purple garbage bins with large flower decals stuck on the front.  Shana was particularly taken with these.

 

NT is impressing me greatly with its commitment to the RV traveller.  I think someone realises that people need spaces to stay that are safe and free.  We all have money to spend and don’t begrudge spending it, it’s just that we’d like to choose where and how to spend it.  With our high priced modern equipment we don’t need power every night; we don’t need a shower every night; we don’t even need a toilet everywhere we go (and most of us definitely don’t need a jumping castle and sprawling water playground).  However, every single night, we do need a safe place to park, preferably on a small section of flatish land.  Supply that and you will be rewarded with thousands of tourists visiting each year.

 Well done NT.  Thank you.  I don’t think it’s only the warmer climate that brings people back year after year.

I give the Bridge Creek Rest Area 3 ½ stars out of 5.  It was another case of a bridge crossing no water but, besides that, it was a good rest area.

NIGHTS 126 – 129  - MT BUNDY STATION, ADELAIDE RIVER.

We’re at the Mt Bundy Station for two reasons.  First, and for the first time in ages, we have a deadline and a schedule, a place we have to be at a given time.  Sammie and Chris, her boyfriend, are flying up from Melbourne to Darwin to spend 3 days with us.  It will be her birthday while she’s here.  We intend going to Leitchfield Park together, four in the ‘bago.  I’m looking forward to it.

So we have to be in Darwin on the 18^th.  That’s over a week away.  Now Darwin knows how to sell itself, and does so at a hefty price.  Darwin caravan parks average over $40 per night.  We don’t mind paying that while Sam and Chris are here, but until then we need to hole up somewhere cheaper until we pick them up at the airport.

Enter the Mt Bundy Station special deal – 4 nights for the price of 3.  That’s 4 nights for ninety bucks.  It sounded cheap enough but what exactly was Mt Bundy Station?

Mt Bundy Station is a working cattle station.  You could get work here if you wanted, doing cow things and horsey things. It’s a massive place, on the Adelaide River, with large shade trees and grass around the homestead and wide flatlands above the river.  Someone had a bright idea so they built some extra toilets, put in more power points, installed a nice deep pool and rented space to travellers like us.  You can park on the flats, park near the house, near the shed, near the horse paddocks, anywhere really.  We got a spot in amongst a grove of large shade trees that looked perfect, reversing into it with seven other vans, the eight of us resembling the spokes of a wagon wheel beneath the trees.  Great, four days out of the long hot sun.  We might even be able to sleep.

 

On night 1 we were invited to drinks at one of the other vans.  We went and quickly realised we were outsiders.  That’s not to say that we weren’t welcomed or that the people we were meeting weren’t friendly, because that’s definitely not true.  It was warm and congenial.  It’s just that everybody there except us and another couple were Victorian nomads who had been coming here for years and worked around the Station in lieu of paying site fees.  They knew each other well and played a roll in the maintenance of the surrounding area, raking the leaves or moving the sprinklers or emptying the garbage bins or watering down the dusty ‘roads’.  They worked during the day and the drinks celebrated the end of work.  We, of course, had done bugger all.

Being grouped with these semi-residents has had an affect on me and my enjoyment of the place.  I didn’t enjoy it greatly.  There was nothing wrong anywhere and the people were all friendly but I couldn’t relax.  To me the place felt similar to a bed and breakfast.  I’ve never liked staying at a bed and breakfast.

To me a bed and breakfast is somebodies home in a way that a motel room isn’t.  It comes with different rules.  A bed and breakfast feels to me like you’re staying in the house of a friend’s friend or a second cousin of your mother or somebody else that someone other than you knows reasonably well and has recommended.  So, even though you pay your money, it feels like you’re still judged on manners, politeness and cleanliness.  Plus you know it’s unavoidable that you’ll be the subject of an evaluative discussion upon leaving.

That’s how Mt Bundy Station feels to me.  Like I’m a guest in somebody else’s house and, even though it’s extremely warm and welcoming, I’m way too visible and feel like I have too much of a role to play. Most people I talk to during the course of the day aren’t vacationing as I am.  Rather, they are cleaning up around me and after me.  What I do directly affects what they have to do. I feel watched and I can’t help it.  It doesn’t affect Shana the same way so it’s totally my stuff.

Morrissey loves it though.  Here big horses and pygmy horses and wallabies and peacocks and more besides just roam free about the place.  Moz rarely chases them anymore, but he still gets confused when an animal other than another dog appears.  It as if he can’t believe what he is seeing and so he cranes his neck to get a better view whilst simultaneously seeking a way to become invisible.  He can’t go swimming anywhere either.  He’s banned from the pool and there’s crocodiles in the river and there’s also been one seen in the dam.  He’s safe standing under the sprinkler but he can’t work out where the water is coming from.  He’s not the smartest dog in the litter.

I give Mt Bundy Station 3 stars out of 5.  It’s nice but, aside from the cool wet pool, I’d prefer the anonymity of a roadside rest stop.  Well, a quality NT roadside rest stop anyway.

 

 

 

 

Crocodile Encounters

CROCODILE ENCOUNTERS

Well, really, we haven’t had any actual encounters with crocodiles, but we have had two occasions where we could have been attacked had we had the worst luck ever.  Such moments can still deliver a chill when looking back.

The first (possible) encounter was behind Mataranka Hot Springs.  After a swim in the warm soupy water of the springs we followed the track to the Little Roper river, where there was a floating pontoon.  I’d seen a sign earlier saying that you could usually swim in the river.  The gate was open, which indicated it was safe, or at least that’s how I interpreted it.   We descended the steps to the pontoon.  It was beautiful, the water clear and inviting, long-limbed trees overhanging both banks.  There was a ladder off the side of the pontoon, obviously for accessing the water.

The hot springs were novel but not refreshing (see separate entry) so I pulled my singlet over my head and dove in.  The water was cold, and murkier once in.  I swam around long enough for Shana to take a photo and then I was quickly up the ladder.  I was wary of crocs but kept telling myself it was all in my head - surely the gate wouldn’t be opened if crocs were an issue. 

An old guy came down the ladder and joined us on the pontoon.  I was towelling myself off and told him to jump in; I told him the water was beautiful.  He said he didn’t think it was safe. To prove my point I went to read him a sign we’d noticed on the back of the gate, one that we hadn’t read yet ourselves.  If we had of read it maybe I wouldn’t have been so cocky.

The sign said that swimming wasn’t banned but the choice was up to the individual.  It said that crocs are regularly caught in the immediate area and there is no guarantee that some crocs haven’t escaped detection.  It was a case of swim at your own risk because nobody can say whether there’s crocs present or not.  They try their best to keep them away but, you know, they can’t make any promises.

I felt a bit dumb then, and sick in stomach.  The dumbest way I can imagine dying is being eaten by a crocodile in the NT.   

The second (possible) encounter wasn’t our fault, although any lurking crocs wouldn’t care either way.  It was on the Katherine River, along the lowlands south of town.

There’s a weir at the lowlands which directs the water and funnels it into a series of little rapids with pools alongside.  Friends had told us they’d swum there and negotiated the rapids on air-beds.  We got there about 10am, walking with Morrissey.  There was nobody around which, given that the day was already stiflingly hot, was unexpected.  We followed the riverbank for a while.  Moz swam at several places.  We watched schools of large fish maintain themselves against the current.  It was  peaceful and serene.

I suggested we take Moz back to the ‘bago and get the bodyboards.  It would be fun. We’d shoot down the rapids into the river.   Shana had a feeling though.  She gets these feelings sometimes.  They send her straight to google. 

Shan’ googled the place we were in – Katherine Low Level Recreational Reserve.  Pages came up depicting it as a popular local swimming hole.  Several sites said much the same thing – swim, enjoy, float down the rapids.  I’d walked off by this stage, me and Moz.  I was looking for a place downstream to exit the river.  I’d travelled maybe 300mtrs and waded into the water several times.

Then Shana’s voice rang through the trees.  It had an edge of panic in it.  Moz took off first and I watched as he ran to her.  She was now standing up off the bank, well away from the river.  When she saw me she made urgent motions with her hands; motions that signalled ‘come here and come quickly’. So I did.

The web search had failed to shake off her ‘feeling’.  She’d then rung the Katherine Information centre who staunchly informed here that a 3mtr saltie had been caught where we stood just over a week ago.  She advised Shana to go nowhere near the riverbank and under no circumstances go in the water.  The area was now considered unsafe.  If you must go there, the woman had said, stay up in the picnic area well away from the water. 

Yeah.  Right.  Good one.  I’d just ambled along the riverside wandering into the water at will, not a care in the world.  I thought it was safe. The internet had told us it was safe.

 There’s got to be a moral in there somewhere.

Nights 103 - 113 - outback heading west.

NIGHT  103  -  BIVOUAC JUNCTION CAMPING GROUND

I think it was as much my imagination as anything.

 It was my first trip ‘out west’ and, even though only two hours from the coast, Charters Towers leaned into the landscape like a (modernised) town from a Western movie.  It was one long street, a slight curve preventing you seeing the end, with buildings echoing a time of hitching posts and drinking troughs.  Looking along it from one end I could imagine horse-drawn carriages and toothless prospectors coming to town for supplies.  (I could also imagine American Indians and chewin’ to’baccy, which highlights how my concept of ‘out west’ has been formed through a young boy watching Saturday afternoon movies). 

It surprised me to learn that Charters Towers was once the second largest town in Queensland – Brisbane being the largest.  It was nicknamed ‘The World’ by the residents of the time, with gold mining success providing a standard of wealth that brought ‘anything one could want’ to the area. (And here my wandering mind has visions of Sydney’s Kings Cross, a legacy from a less innocent me and his formative experiences).  Today many of buildings from the era have been refurbished and look spectacular.  The past opulence is readily evident, even if what looks to have been the grandest of department stores now houses a Target. (Ahh, but it’s not your ordinary Target, it’s one especially branded ‘Target Country’.  It could be interesting to research what the difference is but I don’t care enough about department store philosophy and market positioning to think about it anymore).

Bivouac Junction Camping Area lies 22km west of Charters Towers, and 3km off the highway along a dirt road.  Even though the road was well maintained it still held enough corrugations and ruts to make us hold our breath, each one magnified by the sounds of cutlery rattling against itself in the drawer, glass jars clunking in the fridge and something creaking behind us that we’ve yet to determine. 

 

 

The camp was great.  It was once an army training area (hence ‘bivouac’) beside the Burdekin River.  The river was flowing while we were there and, apparently, there was good fishing to be had.  I couldn’t be arsed even though I think I like fishing.  It’s just so messy though.  What would happen if I caught something big enough to keep.  I’d have to go through the whole rigmarole of cleaning and disposing, etc, etc.  It all seems too much effort when there’s only a few hours before nightfall and you intend leaving early(ish) in the morning. (And what a positive attitude I here demonstrate.  I envision only success and the consequences there of.  As such, I find the supposed apathy of ‘couldn’t be arsed’ strangely inspirational).

 

We had a firepit beside our site and so collected firewood from beside the river, supervised by a mob of wallabies on the grass nearby.  That night we sat beside the fire, bellies full, alternating between watching the dancing flames and watching the winking welcoming of the clear night stars (cue acoustic guitar).

We give the Bivouac Junction Camping Ground 3 ½  stars out of 5 for the night skies, fauna and fire. And for the fact that I can now use the word ‘bivouac’ reasonably often without sounding like a wanker (no correspondence entered into).

 

NIGHT  104  -  THE CAMPASPE RIVER REST AREA.

Not much to say really.  We travelled 180kms to the Campaspe River Rest Area.  It’s really just an expanse of grass around a moderately maintained toilet block, a few stands of trees nearby.  There may have been a river but it’s dry now.  It had a lemon tree but all the lemons had been taken, those left too high to pick.   It was flat and felt safe and that’s good enough for the night.  We give The Campaspe River Rest Area 1 star.  It had a toilet.

 

NIGHTS  105 & 106  -  RICHMOND RV STOP.

Hughendon is a dusty two street town that sets me to wondering why people live where they do.  It makes me think of familial attachments.  Surely it can only the desire for close ties to family and friends that keeps people here.  That I can understand.  I can’t really understand anyone choosing to be here otherwise.  Maybe I’m missing something.

The ‘Lonely Planet’ said that Hughendon did have one noteable feature – ‘FJ Holdens’ - a hamburger place (joint) that was decorated with old rock and roll memorabilia.  I love a hamburger so we stopped for lunch.  I couldn’t bring myself to attempt the ‘Hughendon Special’, a burger that involved more meat than a meat-lovers pizza.  I did have a works burger though.  It was nice.  I didn’t look at the memorabilia too much.  I have little affinity with 50’s music and old American cars.

 The ‘dry season’ holiday had just started.  Students at the local high school finished at noon. We know because we witnessed swearing practise while we ate.  While we chewed fried meat assembling teens cultivated nonchalant poses and threw f-bombs into the air like confetti.  I didn’t care.  They weren’t my kids.  It wasn’t my town.

Richmond was roughly a 100 kms down the road, in the middle of what was once a vast inland ocean.  I’m talking about pre-historic times.  This inland ocean was once the home to a marine dinosaur - the Kronosaurus Queenslandicus - and Richmond’s identity revolves around being a major centre of Australia’s ‘dinosaur trail’.

15kms out of town there are two areas set aside for amateur fossicking.  Dinosaur bones and important fossils had been found here over time.  I quite liked the idea of achieving fame through discovering a new species of marine dinosaur.  Thinking about it as I drove, maybe that was the reason for us being here, at this time, on this day.  Perhaps it was fated that I discover fossils of extreme significance.  Why not? And, if indeed fated, then we needn’t hire the ‘correct’ fossicking equipment.  Fate wouldn’t care what I used.  With me I had a 20oz claw hammer, an insulated blade electrician’s screwdriver and a watercolour paintbrush.  Shana had a cheeseknife shaped a bit like a mouse and a watercolour paintbrush.  We shared the hammer.  With these tools we set out to create history.

 

Maybe fate had a sickie that day.  You haven’t seen me on the news have you?  Turns out we didn’t unearth a single skerrick of dinosaur.  We did find a couple of cool shell fossils and many little brown rectangles that we have since learnt were prehistoric fish scales.  They’re all very commonplace and not very exciting, even if the shell fossils are pretty cool.

After a hard days’ fossicking in the outback we craved water, and in more volume than a glass or bottle.  Richmond has just such a place – the Lake Fred Tritton .  The ‘Fred’ was constructed in the 80s to provide an aquatic recreational park for the area.  In and on the ‘Fred’ one can swim, water ski or jet ski.  It’s not a massive lake so the main rule is that powercraft must all steer in a clockwise direction.  (Here goes my imagination again, this time seeing the watercraft creating a whirlpool like kids do in a swimming pool.  Someone stuck in the middle, spinning round and becoming dizzy). It’s stocked annually with fingerlings of fresh water fish and yabbies and fishing is encouraged. 

We were absolutely alone as we walked around it. 

The most bizarre thing about the ‘Fred’ is that it was constructed over an existing grave site.   The grave is of historical relevance (can’t remember why) and so it wasn’t moved, instead a rock mound was formed atop it.  This mound now exists as a small island in the lake.

It sounds like a wonderful gesture of reverence until you spy what looks like a plastic bucket sitting on the island and read of its purpose.  The bucketesque thing functions as the hole for the annual hole-in-one competition.  So, onto the grave that reverently couldn’t be moved, each year scores of people attempt to land golf balls.  They pepper it for hours, balls bouncing off the rocks, attempting to land one in the bucket.  It’s seems a weird form of respect.  Rest easy historical dude.

Still, being around water was cool and refreshing and again I decided against fishing even though, as Shana pointed out “the fish are all captive.  They have nowhere else they can go.  If you don’t catch one here you might as well give up”.  Precisely.  There was no couldn’t-be-arsedness involved this time.  It’s just that no failure hits harder than the failure of a sure thing.

 

I give the Richmond RV Stop 2 stars out of 5.  It was, literally, a dusty paddock upon which people could park.  It wasn’t level.  It had no toilets.  But it was free and it was somewhere to park legally. So, Richmond, thanks for that. I’m not being sarcastic when I say that it’s better than nothing.

NIGHTS  107  &  108  -  JULIA CREEK CARAVAN PARK.

It was at Julia Creek that we first noticed how the landscape had changed.  Being also once part of the inland ocean, Julia Creek , like Richmond, is flat on all sides, plains of low scrubby trees extending all the way to the horizon.  But here we noticed a difference.

Shana articulated it the best.  She said it was as if everything had been brushed with a yellow wash, and she was right.

The trees all had leaves of green, but a yellow-green, a green similar to a Granny Smith apple.  Wild grass grew vibrant and healthy, but was sun-bleached or washed out, turning the ground the colour of straw.  The dirt was yellow-ochre and the light glowed strong and clear and lemon against the clouds.  It’s not what I had expected of the outback.  I expected vivid reds and achingly vibrant blue.  This landscape appeared jaundiced compared to the lush greens and blues of the coast.  Jaundiced, but not sickly.  It was entrancing and a different beautiful than I’d ever experienced before.

 

I had similar feelings toward the township of Julia Creek itself.  I surprised myself hearing my mouth tell Shana that “I could live here for a while”.  Only half-jokingly I suggested we seek teaching work in the area.  There was something attracting me to this place.

Possibly it was the abundance of water.  In Julia Creek water hangs in the air everywhere – floating in small droplets.

Julia Creek has a bore set into The Great Artesian Basin, an underground sea of water that exists under about 1/3 of Australia.  Water has been pumped out of the Basin at the rate of one million gallons per day for over one hundred years and the levels haven’t dropped.  Somewhere, somehow, the levels are constantly topped up.  What this means for Julia Creek is that water is not an issue, and so sprinklers throw water into the air everywhere you look, seemingly without stopping.  The caravan park had sprinklers that ran all night.  The local pool had sprinklers running whenever it was open.  Sprinklers watered the flowers at the McKinley Shire Council offices.  Water ran in rivulets over the roads and footpaths were soggy under foot.  It reminded me of summers as a child; warm wet air and long days of sunshine. 

 

Julia Creek also has an information centre that is the best I’ve ever seen.  It has several buildings each housing interactive visual and aural displays.  It’s really impressive.  (It told me about the Great Artesian Basin).  Plus it houses a ‘dunnart’’ - a hyperactive madthing of a rodent that hadn’t been discovered until recently.  It also has a sports centre with a skatepark, indoor sports arena, football field, netball courts and swimming pool all set around a community centre with a verandah perfect for lazy bbq fundraisers. 

I really liked the place.

We give the Julia Creek Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5.  The owners are extremely friendly and they let us wash the ‘bago for the first time since we left.  Never thought I’d be excited about washing the car.

 

BOUGAINVILLEAS

I’ve owned bougainvilleas during my life and I’ve never really taken to them.  Sure, the flowers can be stunning, but the plant runs rampant and has thorns all along the length of its stalks.  I’d pigeon-holed them along with blackberries and lantana as a pain-in-the-bum plant that was more work than it was worth.  Chances are I’d still feel the same if I had them in my own (generally small) garden.

They really brighten up an outback town though.

We first noticed a clump of them at St Lawrence, where there was a bougainvillea nursery.  One corner leading into town was ablaze with orange, crimson and red bougainvillea flowers.  The effect was quite startling.  This effect becomes even more startling the further west you get.

As mentioned earlier, outback landscapes can have a ‘yellow wash’ effect or even a non-descript emptiness of foliage and colour.  It can be beautiful in its own way.  But, against the paleness of the surrounding landscapes, the vibrancy of bougainvillea flowers catches the breath.  They look exotic in the outback, and rightly so, given that they originally come from the tropics.  But they love sunshine and tolerate drought and burst with health in the main streets of Hughendon and Richmond and Julia Creek where, planted en mass, their vibrancy of colour can feel like a carnival.

NIGHT 109  -  CORELLA DAM (NEAR MT ISA)

Although in the dry and dusty heartland, our love for water continues to dictate our choices.  We’d been told by people we’d met that ‘you simply must go to Corella Dam’.  It turned out to be a panacea.

The constant dust was having an effect on not just our mental state but our physical health also.  Shana’s nose was blocked, throwing up symptoms similar to hay fever.  She was sneezing and felt continual pressure at the back of her nose.  My nose was fine, the dust congregated at the back of my throat.  It felt disgustingly thick, like it’d been applied to my tonsils with a putty knife.  I tried to cough it away but it lingered.  I drank and I drank and it just turned to mud.  By day the ‘bago echoed to the sounds of Shan sharply dragging breath through her blocked nasal passages and me rasping and hacking like a fifty-a-day smoker.  Moz seemed okay.  I think he found the noises strangely attractive.

The Corella Dam contains several square kilometres of beautiful thank-god water.  You go along a dusty track that opens out to grassed banks and park where you want, right on the edge of the dam.  You can go fishing, if you want to fish; or swimming, if you want to swim; or boating, if you have a boat.  Or, if you’re like us when we arrived, you can simply sit back and look at the water.  You can sit back and let the dam moistened breeze salve your nostrils or throat.  You can sit back, breath deeply, exhale and relax.

 

We met people who directed us towards where fresh water crocodiles (freshies) usually swim.  Freshies, they assured us, pose no threat to life, either ours or Mozza’s.  We believed them and so set off in search.  The dam is massive (having once supplied water for a now defunct mine) and so we walked its bays and contoured edges for an hour.  It felt, looked and smelled beautiful but we never caught sight of a freshie.

It was sunny and hot during the day.  I wore only boardies and walking sandals.  Shana was similarly dressed in shorts and a singlet top.  We had to apply sunscreen.  It was a great shock, then, when the night brought with it the need to wrestle over control of the doona.  Corella Dam was the first place we’d encountered where the temperature differences between daylight and dark were as marked as if they were parts of separate seasons.  It gets bloody hot and it gets bloody cold, and does so within hours of each other.

I give the Corella Dam 4 stars out of 5.  It had water.  It had water. It had water. It had water.

NIGHT 110  -  SUNSET VIEW CARAVAN PARK, MT ISA.

From the sublime to the ridiculous.  If there was a notable view of sunset then I never saw it.  Then again, I was too busy preparing for the second state of origin.

We could have stayed at Corella Dam for many more nights had I not been a league tragic.  But there was no TV reception out there and I didn’t want to miss NSW’s glorious series victory (and from here I will mention the actual game no more.  I find bitter salty tears affect my laptop’s keyboard).

I’d become excited about watching the game in Mt Isa.  In my imagination I’d find a rabid Queenslander pub, full of rabid Queenslander miners, where I would sit quietly and watch NSW shatter their rabid Queenslander dreams.  I wouldn’t even support NSW, or not noticeably.  I’d just be a guy at the back, watching the game as if only mildly interested, cheering and dancing and delivering the bird internally, sipping quietly on a frosty cold cider.   

The reality was that the only Mt Isa caravan park that allowed Mozza dog was nowhere near any form of pub.  Sure, I could catch a taxi if I wanted…(but I didn’t want).  On to plan B.

Plan B involved the common room/camp kitchen of the caravan park.  All caravan parks have them.  I quickly revised my imagination to now witnessing the same decimation of the Queenslander rabid, this time involving Queenslander tourists and quietly sipped cans of coke zero.  I went and checked it out just before kick off.  The TV was on and the game was being shown, watched by 1 guy and two kids who were running around and screaming and no doubt having a blast but well cramping my Origin vibe.  I went back to the ‘bago, surprising Shana who thought she’d be blessed with alone time.  She was even less impressed at the end of the game when I’d regained my NSW sullen.

 

Of Mt Isa itself I’ve little to say.  It has a mine.  A big mine with two chimney stacks that are visible from everywhere, like Centrepoint Tower in Sydney.  The big difference is that Centrepoint Tower doesn’t continually spew forth plumes of black smoke.  (These stacks are the first visible sight of Mt Isa as you approach.  The landscape leading to Mt Isa is beautiful having changed from flatlands to crags and sculptural rock faces but then, through a gap between stunning red hills, you see a long phallic white chimney spitting bile to the sky).

The town itself could be anywhere.  Big enough to have suburbs it is a series of connected shopping strips and housing estates.  There’s all the big names – Subway, McDonalds, KFC, etc.  It could have been Parramatta.  It could have been Logan.  People tell us the tour of the mine is brilliant and not to be missed.  We missed it and maybe we’d have a stronger attachment to the place and its people if we hadn’t.  We’ve got limited funds though.  I’d rather fish on a top end tour boat than don workboots and head down a mine.

I give the Sunset View Caravan Park 1 ½ stars out of 5. In Queensland’s heartland they lacked Queenslander rabid.  1 bloke and 2 kids watching the game.  What a gyp.

NIGHT 111, 112  -  CAMOOWEEL BILLABONG.

More water on recommendation – a series of billabongs usually connected by a small flowing creek.  I say ‘usually’ as Queensland is in drought and the water in the billabongs is low, the creek a dry gouge through the rocks and dirt.

There was enough water for Shana to get the bodyboard out though.  I didn’t think she would.  It was hot, we were hot, and Shan’ said “I might go bodyboarding”.  There were 10 or so vans parked along the length of the billabongs.  Most had people sitting beneath the shade out the front.   Everyone faced the billabongs.  But Shana didn’t care.  She strode to the water, squelched through the mud, and then paddled her away along the billabongs and back, all through water no deeper then 500mm.

 Morrissey chased her of course.  There was a little island in the middle of the first billabong and Moz swam out to it and waited for Shan’ to come back.  When she did he jumped around like a mad thing.  He then came running up to me, looking like a two-tone dog; his upper body the usual red, his legs and belly a deep muddy chocolate brown.  Then Shan’ arrived (looking a bit like a two-tone significant other for the same reason.  Well…muddy half way up her shins).  She was refreshed but didn’t dare put her head beneath the water.  She headed for the bago’s shower.

While here we got the pushies off the rack.  Camooweel was only a kilometre or so away so we thought it’d be fun to ride into town (town being a servo, a historical museum, a post office/supermarket/liquor store and a mechanic).

We were following the dirt track towards town when a car stopped for no reason other than its occupants were keen for a chat.  We were reliving road experiences with the driver when the lady in the passenger seat went white and started pointing towards the grasslands we’d ridden through.  All heads turned, following her finger.  We watched as Morrissey half ran half bounded through and across the low lying tussocks, chasing three wild horses.  The horses were loping along, at speed but conserving energy.  Morrissey wasn’t conserving anything.  He was going flat out after them.  But he made no ground.  Even loping the horses pulled away from him, oblivious to his presence. 

We panicked at first and tried calling him back, but he was focused. He was in the zone.  I’ve no idea what he thought was going to happen.  He chased and he chased and when he could chase no more he returned, exhausted.  His tongue hung low, almost brushing the ground, and he was panting like a piston.  He followed us slowly to town and sat beneath a tree when we arrived.  People commented on how placid he was but  he was just too tired to raise his head.  When we got back to the ‘bago he layed still in the shade all afternoon.  He went to bed early but still managed to be eager and in our faces the next morning.

 

We give the Camooweel Billabongs 4 stars out of 5.  They are a great free camp.  The place is fantastic and the people who go there all seem to be hard core ‘travellers’, many having been there several times before.  They leave space between one another and, although very friendly and chatty, they don’t intrude or encroach on your privacy.

NIGHT  113  -  BARKLEY HOMESTEAD, NT.

Barkley Homestead sucks.   That’s how I feel.  We’ve driven 250 kms to stop in a place that offers nothing other than being a place to stop.  It’s a service station.  It has a caravan park and a bar attached but it’s a bloody service station.

The wind is howling blowing dust everywhere.  I’m not sure what there is to see and do outside our box on wheels because I daren’t exit to find out.  There is too much dust.  We’ve opened some windows just a little to allow air into our cell, but every particle of air has two particles of dust attached.  It’s everywhere I look.  It’s clogging my every orifice.

I’ve just had a shower.  It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I stood beneath the dribble that fell weakly from the shower rose, twirling like a dog chasing its tail.  I’ve just come back to the ‘bago but I’m not happy.  I’m not relaxed. 

 

We’ve just come back from the evening meal.  We went to the bar and had the NT equivalent of pub grub.  I’ve just found out that the Barkley Homestead was never really a homestead.  I thought it was a relic from an older time, converted to a servo.  I thought it may have played a role in droving or opening the area up to cattle; something suitably historical.  But it wasn’t.  It’s only ever been what it is now, a place to buy fuel and to stop driving for a while. It was built in the early 80s.   It was called ‘homestead’ to make it sound more sympathetic to the local environment.  In other words, to make it sound like something historical.  It’s hot and it’s dusty and the built environment is playing word games with my emotions.

It’s morning and the wind has howled all night.  Fine red dust covers every surface and is again coating the inside of my throat.  It hangs defiantly, dancing up a storm in the shards of sunlight that come through the skylight.  We are supposed to stay in the area a couple more days.  Fuck that.

I don’t want to say I’ve had a tantrum but that’s because I’d rather not admit it.  I think Shana was sympathetic but I unloaded on her unexpectedly.  My hatred for this wind and this dust became rebellious while she was having a shower.  It ambushed her as she walked through the door.

I want out of the outback.  Take me back to the coast.  I refuse to stay here in the dust and the wind.  It’s a choice.  We don’t have to.  I don’t want to.  Tennant Creek is an hour away.  It’s too close.  I want to get out.  Let’s turn right at Three Ways.  Turn towards the sea and keep driving.  We could drive all day if we wanted to.  Please can we drive all day?

I give the Barkley Homestead ½ star out of 5.  I’ve read people who have reviewed how they love the place.   They’ve called it an oasis.  I guess it depends on the weather.  On a still day it might have been tolerable.  I hated it.